


the negotiator

by ballantine



Series: red wind of nassau [3]
Category: Black Sails
Genre: Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, F/M, Gen, Kid Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-07
Updated: 2017-05-07
Packaged: 2018-10-29 07:54:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10849704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ballantine/pseuds/ballantine
Summary: In which James gives the world his greatest gift.





	the negotiator

The silence in the immediate aftermath of a screaming fight can be more painful to the ears than the words that came before. An argument rages like a fire, insatiable and devouring; by the time you realize the warmth of the flames are actually burning you, the damage has been done.

In the scorched earth silence following the departure of the Silver women to opposite sides of the house, James watches John rub his face. He looks badly like he wants to disapparate.

James crosses the room to him before he gets a chance to indulge the thought.

He rests his hand on John's neck. His pulse beats steadily under the pad of his thumb, a little fast because of the fight they just witnessed, and the difficult conversations about to ensue.

“This will pass,” he says to him.

John slants him a flat look. “Have a lot of experience navigating betwixt an angry girl and her stubborn mother do you?”

James pauses. Put that way, he'd rather take his chances with Scylla and Charybdis.

John must see something of the thought on his face, because he nods grimly. “Exactly.”

James refrains from rolling his eyes, but just barely. He pulls John in a few more inches and brushes a quick kiss to his temple.

“Go to Madi,” he murmurs. “I will talk to Evie.”

When he steps back, John looks relieved. It's a sign of the world's cruel sense of humor that John Silver, a man who only survived because of his ability to talk to anyone, does not know how to talk to his own daughter.

The hallway leading to Evie's room is quiet, so at least she is not crying.

One discovery they made when Madi and John decided to embark on the voyage of parenthood is that James has an almost unnatural level of empathy for the child. When she cries, he frequently finds tears springing to his own eyes in short order. It's mortifying. Madi maintains it's still a far preferable reaction to John's, which mainly consists of panic and frustration. She herself has always responded to the girl's tears with a very level and matter-of-fact manner.

All of which goes to say: there is a reason James is Evie's favorite.

He knocks softly on the door and waits for a response. One does not barge into a girl's room uninvited, especially when that girl is upset and liable to accidentally levitate a lamp at one's head.

“Go away,” he hears after a moment.

James grimaces. He'd had plans for today, before all this came up. He has a book to finish and notes to make on his latest attempt at a navigation potion. It's temperate for August, and he was going to take a nap in the hammock under the cottonwoods. He's been thinking of that damn nap since breakfast.

“I'm not going to _go away_ ,” he says mildly to the door. “I'm going to sit here and wait for you to relent and let me in. And since I'm old, sitting on this hard floor will likely hurt my back, and then it will be your fault when I am unable to serve as your own personal valet.”

“ _God_ ,” says Evie, which is essentially the same as permission.

When he enters the room, she doesn't turn around or look up from where she sits at her desk, head buried in her arms. The desk faces a window overlooking the trees to the south of the house; James lets himself think longingly of the hammock for only a moment before returning his attention to the girl.

He approaches the desk and waits.

“She hates me,” comes the small voice, the words half-muffled against the sleeves of her shirt.

James sighs. He takes one of her braids between two fingers and gently tweaks it. “None of that now. You're far too clever a child to believe such nonsense, and spouting it just for spite is beneath you.”

Evie raises her head from her arms and glares at him. She would not feel pleasure to hear it, but the expression on her face is identical to the one her mother adopts when angry.

“I do _so_ believe it, and it's _not_ nonsense. She hates me and wants to send me away and you and Father are just going to _let_ her because that's what you _always_ do!”

James can't help it; the part of him that's still a sea captain is offended by the notion that he'd blindly follow anyone, even if it's Madi. He's not _John_ , for Merlin's sake.

“What your father and I always do,” he says, “is have a calm and well-reasoned discussion with your mother before reaching an intelligent decision for how to proceed forward.”

Evie pulls a face. “...and then you do what she says.”

“Well, she's a very persuasive woman.”

To his horror, her face crumples. She throws her arms around him and does her best to burrow her way into his stomach. After a moment, he lets a hand come to rest on her hair. Feels the way her body trembles through the tears.

“Why don't you want me anymore?” she asks into his shirtfront, the question cruel in its sincerity.

As predictable as the earth turning, his own eyes start to sting.

He never wanted children. Never had any expectations as to how he would feel about having one around, even one that had Madi's eyes and John's laugh. He was as shocked as anyone when she took one look at him and permanently snatched part of his heart from his body.

But for over a decade, James has done his best to mind his place where it concerns Evie. She may call him _Papa_ and like to climb over his shoulders like a squirrel and make him read to her long past the age when she learned to do it herself – but he is not her father. He has never had a proper conversation about it with the other two – and he even suspects they would protest his attitude – but he generally tries to leave serious matters and decisions regarding Evie to John and Madi.

In ten years, he has only spoken up and voiced a disagreement once. But he's not about to make matters worse and tell Evie he had argued for keeping her home, for not sending her off to Ilvermorny.

He understands the other two. Their reasoning. Madi refuses to countenance anything less than her daughter receiving the formal schooling and opportunities she wasn't accorded while sequestered away on the Maroon island. And John's fear that she could end up like him is painted on his face every time she does a bit of uncontrolled magic. (As if that were even possible, a witch growing up in a magical household, healthy and cared for and _loved_. But one's worst fears are rarely subject to reason.)

They were surprised when James spoke up and said they should keep her home. The ensuing conversation had been ...unpleasant.

Maybe it won't be as bad as Hogwarts. Were they still living in Bristol, he would have had to press the issue further. The thought of Evie, his clever and spirited girl, forced into institutional black robes and inducted into that narrow-minded, insular culture – it turns his stomach.

But he has no leg to stand on when it comes to this newer school that's an ocean away from that miserable castle in Scotland.

He tips her head back from where it's soaking his shirt and brushes the tears from the corner of her eyes. She finally meets his gaze with a watery bleakness that does not suit her at all. Evie was born to smile.

“If I had my way,” he tells her quietly, “I'd keep you with us until you were sick of the very sight of our faces. But that isn't how the world works. You need to go to school, so you can learn proper spellwork and become the accomplished witch you were meant to be.”

“But I _don't_ need to,” she says fiercely, already rebounding from her tears. “You've already taught me a little Potions and Transfiguration, so you can just keep at that, and Mum can cover Charms. Father can do – _something_ , I'm sure – ” James bites back a smile. “I was taught my letters and numbers at home, I don't see why I have to _go._ ”

“Because there is a whole world out there that you will need to be able to understand in order to navigate it safely.” His fingers tighten fractionally over her shoulders. “And unfortunately, that is one thing I can't teach you.”

They are John's words.

He'd spent most of the argument sitting back silently, letting Madi make her points and listening as James countered them insistently. The entire time, he watched James. The thoughtfulness, the understanding and fucking _compassion_ in his eyes were almost too much to be borne. And when James had turned and stalked from the house out into the dark night, he had followed and spoken the words to his rigid back.

“Take it from someone who learned it the hard way,” he'd said. “The world is a harsh place. You picture her schooling and think of what grand things she will do, how she'll remake civilization itself – and James, I love you for it, I do. But you know as well as I that there is more to learn than what can be read in books. She needs to do this. And you need to let her go.”

So James will let her go, even if it means having to pry off her fingers one by one from where they clutch at him. And he knows she'll likely return for the holidays happy and excited, full of stories about this new school in a faraway land. Soon enough, she'll forget she ever wanted to stay home.

“It's only seven years,” he tells her.

It's a senseless sentence; seven years is an eternity to a child. And no matter his advanced age, he can't help but think it sounds like a very long time to him as well.

 


End file.
